


Serendipity

by Calais_Reno



Category: Serendipity (2001), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Christmas, Coincidences, Developing Relationship, Fate & Destiny, First Meetings, M/M, Misunderstandings, New York City, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-05 22:27:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16819690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calais_Reno/pseuds/Calais_Reno
Summary: A bit of New York Christmas fluff, based on the 2001 movie.





	1. 2002

London / Sherlock

“I thought you’d be pleased.” Mycroft’s expression did not change; he always looked a bit disgruntled.

“I don’t need a minder,” Sherlock replied testily. “You obviously don’t trust me.”

“On the contrary, brother mine. It is a measure of my trust in you that I’ve invited you to accompany me.”

It was true; he did want to see New York. He’d seen all the capitals of Europe, and a few beyond, but never traveled across the pond. But he had imagined doing it on his own, or (in his most secret dreams, the ones he scarcely dared think) in the company of someone he might have romantic feelings for. Since that scenario was unlikely, he would have preferred to go independently.

“I will leave you to your own devices during the daytime,” Mycroft said. “There is much to see and do, tours and matinees and shopping. Perhaps you can purchase your Christmas presents while there. We’ll have dinner together each night, and I have booked tickets for the symphony and the opera. We will have a large suite at the Viceroy on Central Park. You can have as much privacy as you desire while there.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I’m sure Mummy and Daddy will enjoy having you to themselves for the week.”

Just a week, a few hours of each day spent with Mycroft. It might not be so bad. He didn’t know anyone in New York, but solitary adventures had never bothered him.

“Very well,” he said.

Chicago / John

“A Christmas wedding,” John said. “In Connecticut?”

Mike laughed. “Well, that’s what Liz wants. Can you be there?”

“Well, I… what am I saying? Of course I’ll be there!” He grabbed Mike and gave him a hug. “I can’t believe it— you and Liz, finally getting married!” 

“Yeah, people were starting to have their doubts. We’ve only had the longest engagement on record. Liz finally turned to me and said, ‘it’s time,” and so here we are. It’s short notice, I realise, but I can’t very well get married without my best friend at my side, can I? Neither of us want a big wedding, so nothing fancy, really just a kind of elopement with guests invited. There’s a small chapel at her parent’s church that we’ll use for the ceremony. Then we’ll have dinner at her parents’ home.”

 _Best friend._ John hadn’t had anyone call him that since he was six. Mike had been his colleague at Billings Hospital for a few years, both of them working as residents. He supposed the long nights on call together had forged their friendship. He wasn’t sure he knew what being a best friend entailed, but he liked Mike— his enthusiasm, his cheeky sense of humour, his cheerful outlook. _Why not?_ He could be best friend to a man like Mike Stamford.

“God, I’m happy for you, Mike,” he said, grinning. “Why Stamford, Connecticut, though? Did they name the town after you? Or did they move there when you got engaged?”

Mike laughed again, his round face turning pink. “No, Liz grew up there, but her parents have gotten a lot of mileage out the coincidence. Named after a town in England. Before that it was called Rippowam.”

“I think you should change your name. Doctor Rippowam. You’re sure to be the only one in the directory. How far from the city is Stamford?”

“You can take a train and be at Grand Central in an hour.”

“If it’s that close, I might play tourist while I’m out there,” John said. “Since you’ll be busy.”

“Yeah, sorry. She has a lot of family. There’ll be a dinner the night before; maybe we can sneak out for drinks afterwards, a sort of bachelor’s night — you, me, and a couple of college buddies. I’d really like to spend some time with you.”

“I’d like that too.”

Connecticut / John

They were on their third beer before John asked.

“So… you never told me. How did you and Liz meet?” He’d known Liz as long as he’d known Mike, but somehow had never heard the story. He supposed they’d gone to undergrad together, or maybe even met in high school. Most married people he knew had met either at school or at work. Liz was a beautiful girl, a funny and intelligent person. How she’d fallen in love with Mike, a slightly chubby guy who was a bit shy and socially awkward — this he’d never understood. Nice guys like Mike never ended up with beautiful, intelligent women. They always settled for _sweet_ (the consolation prize for average-looking women) _,_ or _interesting_ (which meant _ugly but intelligent_ ). He wondered. And it wasn’t as if he could just say, _you’re a four, she’s at least a nine, so how did this happen?_

Mike smiled. “A friend introduced us. He noticed the trouble I had asking girls out, and how disastrously most of my dates turned out. He offered to find me the perfect mate. I could hardly refuse, could I?”

John snorted. “The perfect mate? How is that even possible?”

“He was a psych student at the time, my roommate at Yale. Craig Dennis. I don’t know what his method was, but in a week he turned up with Liz, introduced us and, as they say, the rest is—”

“Pure luck,” John finished. “You’re saying this guy, because he was a psych major, was able to find your true love? More likely he brainwashed Liz into thinking you were handsome.”

“You don’t believe me.” Mike grinned. He nodded towards the door. “Here he is now, so you can interrogate him yourself.”

They stood and greeted Craig Dennis as he approached their table. Mike made introductions, and they sat.

If John Watson felt himself to be average and ordinary, this fellow was so ordinary that the word might have been invented to describe him. Light brown hair, brown eyes, average height and weight. Not unattractive; just average. He wore glasses and a cardigan sweater. To John, he looked like a nerdy professor, hardly a successful matchmaker.

“I was just telling John how you introduced me to Liz,” Mike said. “He doesn’t believe it.”

Craig pushed his glasses up on his nose and smiled modestly. “I get that a lot.”

“What’s your method?” John asked. He was just trying to be polite, but part of him felt like debating the entire concept. Love was not a formula. It was not an equation to be solved. It was mystery, magic—

“Psychology,” Craig said. “There are many types of psychological profiles that can be used to predict compatibility. As a student, I did a number of experiments where I had people fill out surveys. Mike was always a willing subject. When I saw him striking out every time he met a girl, I wondered why. People make snap judgments based on trivial things; in doing so, they miss out on potential relationships. I wondered if there might be a more scientific way of matching people up, and I realised that I already had the preliminary data for a good experiment. When I decided to help Mike, I just looked through the surveys of the other students I’d used and saw that Liz and he ranked high in compatibility.” He smiled modestly. “I did my PhD thesis on the influence of compatible traits on the longevity of a marriage.”

“I was your first experiment,” Mike said, grinning. “Sorry it’s taken us to long to get to the altar, but she’s stuck with me through four years of medical school, so I think we can declare it a success.”

“And how many of your subjects have lasted as long as Mike and Liz?” John asked.

“In my trial, fourteen have married, and twenty-seven more couples are engaged. About eighty dating couples as well. This is out of a pool of just over five hundred people over the three years I’ve been working on it. That’s loads better odds than simply going to bars, and safer as well. We’re still several years out from long-term data, but I’m getting ready to launch my own online service next month.”

“That’s… amazing,” John said. In another way, it sort of horrified him to think that people could be so easily deluded. “But, it’s… I don’t know. If two people are desperate enough— no offence, Mike—”

Mike laughed. “None taken. Both Liz and I were at a point where we were tired of dating and just wanted an easy way to find someone compatible, hopefully someone we could spend our lives with. It might seem a bit unromantic, but for us, it worked.”

Craig cocked his head at John. “If you’re not seeing someone, I could give you a free trial. My database is large enough that I can guarantee you at least three matches.”

“John’s not seeing anyone,” Mike said. He grinned. “Lots of dates, but he has trouble committing. Phobic, you might say.”

“I’m not phobic,” John said. “I just… well, I’m a medical student. Who has time for all of that? But I don’t need an algorithm to find me a mate for life. When it happens, it happens. I’ll know.”

“Love at first sight?” Craig said. “Do you know how many marriages end in divorce? Fifty percent. And how many of those people thought they’d found their soulmate? All of them. It’s a crapshoot, John. You’re a fool if you expect to find true love at first sight. Better to narrow the odds. Love is not fate. It’s really just chemistry.”

John shook his head. He gave Craig a tight smile. “I guess I’m a fool, then— the last of the die-hard romantics.”

As he lay in his hotel bed that night, he tried to imagine how it would occur. He was certain it wouldn’t happen while he was looking for it. It would happen unexpectedly, their eyes meeting across the room at a party, or passing each other on the street, standing in line for coffee…

He had no ideal type, and had certainly dated a wide variety of women. He wasn’t picky, but it all felt so… formulaic. He’d been to many weddings since undergraduate days, all people no more handsome or winning than he. As the years passed, he saw himself becoming the unfortunate single in a group of married friends, the one they always paired up with somebody’s visiting cousin at dinners and parties. They would worry about him behind his back, wondering why he hadn’t met someone, what was really going on. He would begin to feel desperate, and that would spell doom for any relationship.

 _The thing is just to live my life_ , he decided. Life could be fulfilling, even without a person at his side to experience it with him. He wasn’t lonely. He really didn’t mind being alone.

And maybe there really was someone out there, just waiting to meet him.

The wedding was small and lovely, the guests mostly family. He and Craig stood up for Mike, who had no brothers, and Liz’s two married sisters stood at her side. Afterwards, he rode with Craig up to the house in High Ridge where the reception would be. It was snowing lightly, making everything look delightfully New England-y and picture postcard-ish.

“So how come you’re not married?” John asked him. “You couldn’t find your own perfect match?”

Craig smiled. “I’m gay. I have a boyfriend, and we’re quite compatible. But he’s overseas right now.”

“Really,” John said. He hadn’t pegged Craig as gay.

“Justin’s doing a stint in the army, but he’ll be home soon.”

“That’s… good. I mean, being together.”

“You know,” said Craig. He paused, looking apologetic. “I don’t mean it as an insult, obviously, but when I met you, I thought you might be gay.”

“Oh. Really?” Nobody had ever suggested this to him before. It was an interesting moment, an opportunity, perhaps. Craig didn’t seem to be hitting on him, so he might ask what he wondered instead of defending his heterosexuality. “What made you think that?”

Craig shrugged. “Nothing obvious. I’m a psychologist, and I’ve studied attraction for years now. When we first met, you were looking at me, just noting things in a way that most straight men don’t. You were evaluating my attractiveness— not with any intention of hitting on me. Just… evaluating.”

“I’m not gay,” he said, a bit too quickly. “I mean, it’s fine. Being gay is totally fine.”

“I know,” said Craig. “You were surprised just now when I said I was gay.”

“I guess… maybe I just assume everyone’s straight. I’m always surprised when someone I know comes out. I shouldn’t make assumptions, I know. It’s…”

“Heteronormative,” Craig said. “Most people are. There’s no reason why people should wear a badge proclaiming their sexual orientation. It makes it hard sometimes, though, to be sure someone’s interested and not going to be offended if you guess wrong.”

John smiled, embarrassed. “I always thought gay people could easily spot other gay people. You should start a dating service for gay people.”

“It’s in the works. The app I’m launching is aimed at heteros, but the same concept could work for gay people. Or any other subgroup, for that matter. One woman I know, a Jew, has asked me to find her a Jewish husband. Indian people have a similar problem. Small pool of potentials, parental pressure— you can see how it would be.”

“I predict you’re going to make millions,” John said.

“I hope so,” Craig said, smiling. “But you’re still relying on destiny, is that right?”

John grinned. “Hopeless romantic, remember?”

New York / Sherlock

Sherlock made the most of the hours when Mycroft was tied up with business. He systematically explored the major sites, going up into the Empire State Building, taking the ferry out to Ellis Island and looking up all the Holmeses who had immigrated to America in the nineteenth century. He visited the Metropolitan Museum, the Natural History Museum, and the Guggenheim. He went up to the Cloisters for lunch, took the Circle Line around the island. He went to the 9-11 Memorial.

Shopping was not something he particularly enjoyed, but he spent a day picking out presents for his immediate family. He browsed Brentano’s Bookstore and found a few volumes that were interesting.

Mycroft took him to La Grenouille for dinner.

“Tomorrow’s our last day,” his brother said. “Any plans?”

Sherlock shrugged. The trip had been rather interesting, certainly not a disaster. “I might just stroll around, see what strikes my fancy.”

“I can get you tickets for Les Mis, if you’re interested. Or Into the Woods.”

“Not interested,” he said. “I’ve already done the things that all tourists do. I feel like seeing what I’ve missed. Maybe I’ll ride the train up to Harlem and look at the architecture.”

“As you wish.” Mycroft shrugged.

On his final day, he felt weary of the crowds, tired of sight-seeing. Mycroft had reminded him that they had an evening flight and he should be packed and ready to leave by seven that evening. As he left the hotel, he checked his bag at the desk.

Thinking about what he felt like doing, he bought some newspapers and walked east, towards the river, looking for an interesting cafe where he might read for a few hours. Then maybe he’d walk.

New York was full of small, quirky restaurants and cafes. As Sherlock surveyed his choices, his eyes landed on a sign: _Serendipity._ He smiled. Perhaps it was a happy chance that he led him here. It was much more likely that he would find the place noisy and the food mediocre. _Well, an experiment then_. He’d give it twenty minutes. If he didn’t like it, he’d move on.

It was a bit bright, he thought, as he came through the doors. And warm. Not too noisy, though most of the tables were filled. A sign at the desk said _Please_ _Seat Yourself._

Spying a small table towards the back, he headed in that direction and swung his bag off his shoulder onto one of the chairs. As he did he bumped a man who seemed to have the same idea.

“Sorry!” the man said. “My fault.”

“I beg your pardon,” he said, taking a step back. He’d found that New Yorkers could be pushy, and a bit combative as well. He didn’t want to fight over a table.

The man was about Sherlock’s age, with blonde hair and deep blue eyes. He smiled and gestured at the table. “I think you’ve got dibs.”

“Dibs?”

“Yeah. You were here first, I guess.”

“Perhaps by a fraction of a second, but that hardly—”

“No, please,” the man picked up his own satchel and shouldered it. “I’ll wait for another.”

“Or we could share,” Sherlock said. “Were you expecting someone?”

“No, I’m alone,” the man said.

“So am I. And I see no reason not to share the table.” He didn’t generally enjoy chatting with strangers, but perhaps it would provide a diversion from his boredom. As a bonus, the man was rather attractive.

“That’s really nice of you.” The man grinned again. “I’ve gotten so used to people pushing me out of the way here that I didn’t expect… well, sure. I’m happy to share with you.”

They sat, smiling at each other. “I’m John,” the man said, extending his hand.

“William,” he returned, taking the offered hand and giving it a brief squeeze. He wasn’t sure why he’d given his actual first name, which he rarely used. Just caution, he supposed. His eyes went over his table mate, sussing him out. _Graduate student, Midwestern accent, probably in town for a wedding. Attractive, but unattached. And most likely straight._

“So, William,” John said. “You’re a tourist? Or here on business?”

“Tourist,” he said. “And you?”

“I’m from Chicago. Just in town for a wedding.”

“Not your own, I perceive.”

John giggled. “No. A friend from school. They’re on their way to Nassau right now, and I don’t know anybody here, so I thought I’d just spend the day seeing the sights.” He smiled. “You’re British.”

“Very perceptive. Though I might be faking it, you know. Americans seem impressed by British accents. Even the people in adverts on the telly, trying to sell you bath tissue or breath mints, have British accents here. It’s curious.”

“Are you faking it?”

“No, my accent is one hundred percent real. I have, however, been attempting to acquire a New York accent that I might use when I return home.”

“Which one? Bronx? Brooklyn? Long Island?” John said the last one as _long guy land_ , pronouncing the _g_ as if it were part of _island._

Sherlock smiled and raised his eyebrows. “It appears that there are more variants than I was aware of.”

A waiter approached, bearing menus. “Our special today is Shepherd’s Pie. Our soup of the day is tomato bisque. That comes with toasted challah. Do you need a few minutes?”

“I’m in the mood for dessert. And coffee, of course,” Sherlock said, waving aside the menu.

John nodded. “Sounds good.”

“Chocolate lava cake,” the waiter intoned. “Apple pie, carrot cake. Cheese cake, of course. Those are the favourites. And our sundaes are legendary—”

“Banana split,” they said simultaneously.

“It’s huge,” the waiter said. “Most people can’t finish one.”

John looked at Sherlock, smiling. “Two spoons?”

Coffee arrived, followed by a giant bowl covered in whipped cream.

“Coronary thrombosis in a bowl,” John said.

Sherlock used his spoon to peer under the whipped cream. “Or perhaps a diabetic coma.”

“How many scoops d’you think are under all that whipped cream?”

Sherlock estimated. “Three is traditional, I believe. But these scoops are huge.”

John let out a sigh. “Well, let’s not let it melt!”

They worked their way towards the bottom of the dish, exchanging smiles.

“This is decadent,” Sherlock said, savouring his last spoonful.

“The American approach to dessert. Too much of everything you can’t resist,” John said. “Here, have the cherry.” He nudged it with his spoon.

“There are two,” Sherlock said, fishing around in the fudge slurry. “One for each of us.”

At last, their spoons rested at the bottom.

“Well,” said Sherlock. “I feel like I ought to receive a medal for completing that. I’m happy to share credit with you, of course. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I need a nap. Or more coffee,” said John. “What are your plans for the day?”

“Nothing special. It’s my last day in the city and I’m a bit weary of museums and shopping. You?”

“I shopped this morning,” he said. “I’m only here for the day.”

“Then you’ll want to see the sights, I presume.”

John shrugged. “I’ve been here before. When I was a kid, my parents thought we should see DC and New York. We spent a couple weeks one summer traipsing through museums and looking at monuments. Not very much fun for a twelve year old. I’ve never felt any desire to ride a tour bus since.”

“I’ve spent the last five days as a tourist. I can tell you anything about the Big Apple you might care to know.”

“What’s your favourite thing?”

“The Metropolitan Museum of Art. It has a bit of everything. Armour, costumes, musical instruments. Egyptian mummies. As it’s a bit cold today, it would be a better option than a boat ride. It’s on the eastern side of the park, so you could do a bit of walking there if you wanted.”

“That sounds good,” John said. “I could use the exercise. All I’ve done since I got here is eat.”

They rose, smiled, extended hands once more.

“Nice meeting you, William.”

“My pleasure, John.”

New York / John

John had already walked a block, looking for a bus schedule, when he realised that he’d left his satchel at the restaurant. He ran back, wondering how he could have been such an idiot. Surely someone had already walked off with it— plane tickets, the copy of _Diamonds are Forever_ that he’d found in a used book shop, the Christmas present he’d bought for his mom.

He was feeling annoyed with himself as he pushed the door open. A woman stood at the hostess station, marking something on a laminated chart. “How many?” she asked.

“I don’t need a table. I left something here— a bag. Did anyone…?”

“I did,” a familiar voice said.

He turned and found William smiling at him.

“You waited for me to come back?”

William shrugged. “I’m afraid I walked off without my bag as well. Rather inattentive of me. When I came back, I saw yours and picked it up. I assumed you would notice before you made it very far.”

“Wow.” John took his bag, grinning, and hefted it onto his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

But he didn’t leave. They stood, staring at one another. _It’s a sign,_ John thought. _This was supposed to happen. We were supposed to meet._ He had no idea what it meant, but there was no harm in following through.

“How about…” He grinned, embarrassed. “I mean, if you don’t have other plans, would you like to see the museum with me?” As William hesitated, he bumbled on. “I mean… I’m sure you’ve got more interesting things to be doing and you’ve already seen it so you probably don’t—”

“You’re asking me to accompany you?” He looked doubtful. “To the museum?”

John nodded. “I mean, if you want to. I’d love to see what you found most interesting.” He let out an embarrassed huff. “Okay, dumb idea. It’s all right—”

William’s face creased into a smile. “I’d be delighted.”

At several points in his life, John considered the possibility that he might be gay. He liked women and found them easy to be around. A relationship with a woman required no explanation, no awkward assumptions, no tense conversations with parents. He’d seen what Harry went through coming out to their very conservative family. It had driven her away, as far as she could go without leaving the mainland, to California, where being gay was apparently passé, completely last year. Nobody there assumed you were straight.

Being attracted to women made it easy for him to eliminate the mental debate with himself. He could pass as straight, so he would not explore _the queer side_. But now, sitting on the bus next to William, the most beautiful man he’d ever met, he wondered if all of his dates leading to nothing meant something other than what he’d always thought. He’d blamed his lack of relationships on bad luck, mostly. And school took an inordinate amount of time and energy. He hadn’t seriously expected to find a mate when he began medical school. But all his college friends were married now, even the ones who had gone on to demanding graduate programs. He remained alone, unclaimed. There had been no moments where eyes had met across a room, no accidental encounters that made him wish… until today.

When he first looked into William’s blue-green eyes, he’d felt something. Maybe it was what Craig had noticed. He had unconsciously evaluated him, judging his attractiveness. He was just too slow to realise it at the time. Just as he backed away from women who were tens, he’d ruled out any possibility that a man as gorgeous as William could be interested in John Watson, who was (on his best days) merely a seven. But when he returned to the restaurant, and William was there, waiting for him— then, he’d seen it. Love at first sight.

Or maybe not. The man had given no indication of anything like that. He’d been polite, charming, and reserved. Their conversation had been just what one would expect in such a situation, two strangers sharing a banana split.

But he’d agreed to see the museum with John— _delighted_ , he’d said. To play tour guide on his last day in the city. John feared that he was just being nice. Maybe he was bored and had decided to study John’s Chicago accent, add it to his collection of American vernacular. The possibility that he was actually interested was remote.

 _Well, enjoy it_ , he told himself. _You’re just going to the museum. It’s not a date._

“You’re from London?” John asked.

William nodded. “I’m a student at King’s College, in London. I’m here with my older brother. He’s _somebody_ in the government. Or thinks he is.”

From his tone, John surmised that they didn’t get along well. “I’ve never been to England. Actually, I’ve only been out of the country once, when I was in college. I spent a month in Greece.”

“Greece is lovely,” William agreed. “Much nicer than Italy, in my opinion.”

“And what do you study?”

“I’m taking a degree in chemistry. You’re a medical student, I perceive.”

“How did you know that?”

“You describe the sundae as a _coronary thrombosis in a bowl._ Most people would have said _heart attack._ Judging by your age, I assumed you were still in med school, not yet out in practice.”

“That’s amazing. Or maybe I’m just that easy to read.”

“No, I’m really that amazing,” William replied. His smile was a bit flirtatious, John thought.

“And extremely humble.”

William’s face went pink. “I didn’t mean it to come out that way. People don’t usually say _amazing_. _”_

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off.”

John giggled. William looked surprised, then started giggling too.

“Well, I think you’re pretty amazing,” he said finally, hoping he didn’t sound like an idiot. “Most people wouldn’t have figured that out.”

“Most people are idiots,” William replied. He gave John a surprisingly shy smile. “Present company excluded.”

 _I’m flirting with a man,_ John thought. _What the fuck am I doing?_

New York / Sherlock

Having wandered through the Met for two hours, they sat at the small cafe inside the museum, drinking coffee once more. “I’ve had fun today,” John said. “I expected to spend the day walking around aimlessly. This was better.”

Though Sherlock couldn’t have imagined it hours ago, he felt as if he could sit across from John forever, just talking. Their conversation hadn’t been deep, but it had been comfortable. Conversation generally made Sherlock feel like an idiot. Though he was preternaturally observant, he never found it easy to pick up on the social cues of others. Having a conversation was like playing a game whose rules everybody else seemed to understand, and which randomly changed without any apparent discussion.

But he talked to John without reserve or awkwardness. The man was comfortable. He was intelligent and easy going, with a smile that was genuine, not snarky _._ He laughed at things Sherlock meant to be funny, not his unintended _faux pas_. Sherlock could not remember ever making someone else laugh like that, as if they were friends, a pair who knew one another so well that they could supply one another’s punchlines.

But now he felt genuinely awkward because he didn’t know what should happen next. He didn’t want to ruin the lovely afternoon they’d been having. There were still a few hours until he had to return to the hotel, meet Mycroft, and get a cab for the airport.

“I’m glad I met you,” he said, looking down at his empty cup. “I didn’t expect to enjoy… this so much.”

“This…?” John said. “I suppose destiny meant for us to meet so we wouldn’t have to spend the day alone.” He said it lightly, almost teasingly.

“Destiny?”

“Call it coincidence,” said John. “Meeting like this, completely unplanned, as if fate had dropped us here. You, from London, and me, from Chicago. It isn’t as if we’d ever run into each other in the normal course of life.”

“The universe is rarely so lazy.” He smiled at John. “Coincidences happen all the time. You’ve probably exchanged words with at least a dozen people today whom you would not otherwise have met, but you attach no significance to them. We’ve spent the day together, sharing bits of our lives, and so have had time to consider the significance of our meeting. Thus, we feel that our meeting is significant.”

“So, I could have conscripted a dozen other people today who would have gladly shared a banana split and toured me around the museum for two hours? I don’t think so.”

Sherlock shrugged. “As I said, our meeting was coincidental, and it has some significance. It’s just difficult to predict what it means in the long run.” _Too serious for small talk. Look at his face— he’s going to make apologies and say he has to leave in about ten seconds._

John chewed his lip for a bit. “Ice skating.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“We need to go ice skating at Rockefeller Center. The ultimate holiday touristy thing. You do know how to ice skate, don’t you?”

 _How hard could it be? Two blades, a rink of ice, six feet of awkwardness…_ “I think I might be able to manage.”

It was hard _and_ awkward, he decided. And he hadn’t had so much fun since he’d gone sledding as a child, sitting in front of Mycroft on an ancient sled they had uncovered in the shed.

John was a former hockey player, quite comfortable on skates. He blamed it on growing up in the Midwest, where there was no North Atlantic Current to warm their winters. He told Sherlock how the snow would come off the lake in winter, blanketing the shore communities, while the parts of the city further from the lake would see only a few flakes. “We moved to the northwest side when I was in elementary school. Didn’t have nearly enough snow days after that.”

After Sherlock landed on the ice for the third time, John took his hands. Following his rhythm, they were soon skating around the rink, John in front skating backwards, and Sherlock staring at his feet— because staring at those dark blue eyes was more than he could handle.

He’d thought the man was straight, but now he wondered. _Would a straight man hold hands whilst skating with another man?_ In England, never. Perhaps Americans did such things, though. He could draw no conclusions.

“Stop looking at your feet,” John said. “This should be just like walking.”

“Perhaps I need to look at my feet then as well,” Sherlock replied. “They have a tendency to embarrass me.”

“I’ve seen you walk and don’t recall you tripping.” John laughed. “You’re just nervous because generally ice under your feet results in pratfalls. Relax. Stop thinking of it as something that’s going to make you land on your ass, scattering all your packages.”

They skated in silence for a while. “See?” John said. “You’re actually quite a natural. Very graceful.” His cheeks were red with the cold, his eyes bright. “Want to switch places?”

John turned his blades, bringing them to a stop and turned them around. “Bend your knees. Keep your legs apart. Now, I’m going to give you a gentle push, so you start moving in that direction. Just do s-curves with your feet and you’ll keep going. Once you’re comfortable, you’ll naturally speed up.”

It took him a minute, but he found himself moving backwards quite easily. “Don’t let me run into anything,” he warned John.

“I won’t.” John grinned. “You’re doing great.”

An hour went by quickly. When they began to tire, they bought hot chocolate and sat, watching the other skaters. Sherlock glanced at his watch. There was still some time left. He just wasn’t sure how to use it. It was foolish to think that John felt anything for him. He didn’t want to misinterpret any cues, ruin even the memory of this afternoon.

“Is anyone waiting for you in Chicago?” he asked, trying to sound disinterested.

“No. My dad died a few years ago, and my mom lives in Wilmette. She was tired of the city after Dad was gone. Moved into a building near shopping. If she wants to go downtown, there’s the train. I have an older sister who lives in San Francisco.”

_If he had a girlfriend, he would have mentioned her by now, he decided. But that still doesn’t mean he would welcome advances._

“You said you’re here with your brother. Do your parents still live in London?”

“No, they’ve retired to Kent. That’s southeast, but not too far from the city.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Not really my area.” His ears burned. He pulled his scarf tighter.

“Ah. Boyfriend, then? It’s fine, I mean, if you do.”

“I don’t have any— erm… my studies keeps me quite busy.”

“Understood. Between school and work and student loans, I don’t have time for romance.” He stared down at his cocoa. “I’m not looking. Well, I’m not _not_ looking, either. I just think what’s meant to be will be.”

“Like our meeting,” Sherlock said. “Life is full of coincidences. We make choices without knowing how our decisions will play out or what role chance plays.”

“Yeah,” John said. “Kind of weird that we met at a place called Serendipity, isn’t it?”

“Coincidental,” Sherlock replied. “We might have met at Starbucks.”

“I don’t think so,” John said, grinning. “Their desserts aren’t nearly as good.”

They smiled at each other for a moment. Sherlock felt the opportunity passing, but could not find anything to say.

The moment began to feel too long. John nodded and looked around. “I suppose I should get back to my hotel. I’ve got a plane to catch.”

“Not coincidentally, so do I,” said Sherlock, feeling both relieved that the tension had broken and disappointed in himself. “What time is your flight?”

“About nine.”

“Same here. Which airport?”

“La Guardia.”

“Ah. JFK for me. Where’s your hotel?”

“Queens, near the airport. Yours?”

“West 57th Street, just south of the park.” Sherlock stood, shouldering his bag. He held out his hand. “It’s been fun.”

John stood as well. “Look, I know you’re across the pond,” he said, smiling, “and I’m stuck in the Windy City for the time being, but maybe we could exchange phone numbers. You know, if I’m ever in London, or you’re in Chicago…”

“Of course,” Sherlock said. He began patting his coat, feeling inside the pockets for a scrap of paper.

“Receipt,” said John, pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket.

Sherlock gave him the pen he’d found. John wrote, handed the slip of paper back to him.

In the moment that the paper was meant to find its way from John’s fingers into Sherlock’s, a gust of wind caught it, driving it straight up into the darkening sky, where it disappeared.

They looked at each other. Sherlock cleared his throat. “Well, perhaps I have another slip of paper somewhere…”

John gave him a curious look. “You believe in coincidence.”

He stopped rifling through his pockets. “The universe is random. It is no surprise that coincidences occur. It’s only surprising that we’re continually surprised by them.”

“The universe just snatched my phone number out of your hand,” said John.

Sherlock frowned. “The universe is not capable of rational thought, John. And if it were, why did it bring us together only to send us apart without a scrap of evidence that we ever met?”

John was shaking his head. “It’s a sign. If the universe wants us to meet again, we’ll find each other.”

“Perhaps we could give the universe a hand by exchanging phone numbers.” Sherlock suddenly felt quite embarrassed. John obviously had changed his mind, realising that neither of them was likely to ever call the other’s number. He had clearly misread John's friendliness, mistaking it for something else. Perhaps it was better to just keep the memory of this day pure, unmarked by an awkward sense of guilt that they hadn’t reconnected.

“No. I have a better idea. Do you have any money?”

Unable to follow John’s thinking, he opened his wallet. “I have twenty pounds and a five dollar bill.”

“American money, please.”

“Why? Doesn’t fate like todays’ exchange rate?”

“Just helping fate along. Write your name and phone number on it.”

He wrote: _William Sherlock Scott Holmes. 011-44-20-6238-3518._

“All right, give it to me.” Without looking at the slip, he walked over to a news stand, handed it to the owner, and came back with a pack of gum and change.

“Should I attach some significance to the fact that you just used my phone number to purchase chewing gum?” Sherlock asked.

“I had to buy something in order to get change.” He dumped the coins and bills into Sherlock’s hand. “It’s in circulation now. I’m meant to find it eventually, if fate wants us to meet again. Since I’m unlikely to be in England any time soon, I thought American currency would be best.”

“You’re meant to find it,” Sherlock repeated. “If— out of all the millions of bills circulating in this country— this particular bill comes into your hand. Is that right?”

John nodded. “Yes. Now we’ll need something with my number as well.” He opened his satchel and pulled out a book. “James Bond,” he said, grinning. “ _Diamonds are Forever._ Found it at a used bookstore this morning. Not a first edition, but in good shape. Should last a few more years.” He opened it, took Sherlock’s pen and wrote his name and phone number on the inside cover. “There’s another used bookstore across the street from my hotel. I’ll sell this when I head back there.”

Looking at John’s smiling face, he understood. John had no interest in staying in touch with Sherlock. He wasn’t gay, had realised that Sherlock was, and was trying to find an inoffensive way to back out. There was no way that James Bond would ever cross the Atlantic. He nodded, feeling embarrassed that he’d let his hopes rise.

“I see,” he said. “Well, the universe has been kind today. I hope you have a pleasant flight back, John.”

“You too,” said John. “Merry Christmas, William.”

New York / John

John took the train to Queens, already regretting what he’d done. He stopped at the used bookstore, wondering whether he should even bother selling his book. He could simply keep it. William would never find it. He lived an ocean away. And he might have enjoyed his time with with John, but he wasn’t interested— not like that.

He went inside. _Coincidences happen all the time._

“How much will you give me for this book?”

The clerk paged through it. “Pretty good shape. A dollar.”

John had paid three dollars for it earlier in the day, but took the dollar. He thought of that slip of paper flying up into the sky.

_He was just being polite. He wouldn’t have called._


	2. 2009, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the universe drops a couple of clues.

Chicago / John

John Watson tried to look interested. Mary was discussing how they might spend the holidays. _Not quite a discussion_ , he thought, since he had nothing to contribute. Chicago was his home, and though both his parents were long dead, his sister refusing to leave California, Christmas would not feel right if they spent it in Ohio, with her parents.

“They have a ballet, you know,” Mary was saying. “They draft local dance students for the Nutcracker each year. Quite an honour to be asked. I danced in it as a mouse when I was six, and by the time I was ten, I’d been promoted to snowflake.”

He hummed, looking out the window at the snow. Across town, at the airport, there would be no snow, he knew. Lake effect caused that.

They lived in Evanston, close to the lake, because Mary thought Hyde Park was crime-ridden. When he decided he could work again, after Afghanistan, she got him a job at the Northside clinic where she worked. Some days, he missed the excitement of the emergency room at Billings.

“We’ll drive around, look at all the lights. You won’t believe what some people do to their houses for the holidays. And they’ve built a new mall just north of the outerbelt. I love shopping at Christmas time. The stores all decorated, the carols playing…”

There were entirely too many malls in Columbus, Ohio, he’d decided. On their last visit, they’d seen them all, he guessed. John didn’t enjoy shopping.

“…founded by Germans. And there’s the brewery district — locally crafted beers. As a beer drinker, you’ll love…

She was joking, of course. She would never enjoy a night out, trying local beers. This was just bait, to reel him in…

“Ohio State has an excellent medical school,” she went on. “You might see what openings they’ve got. Or you could enrol as a student, get a degree in counselling. I loved being a student there. And the football games! You love football, John…”

“Mmhm,” he murmured. He didn’t love football. He loved baseball. Columbus didn’t have a baseball team, not a real one, like the Cubs or the White Sox. Mary never remembered that, though. She also seemed to think he liked…

“Fruitcake!” she exclaimed. “My mother makes the best you’ve ever had. She soaks it in bourbon for a few weeks ahead of time.”

“Mm.” And he hated fruitcake on the principle that one should never abuse a good bourbon by pouring it over cake.

“My parents will want to show you off, of course. My mom always has an open house the Saturday before Christmas…”

He wondered when his life had become so… scripted. Once there had been adventure, travel, and the excitement of considering all the options. Mary was an organised woman. She planned for every eventuality—

“Twenty kinds of cookies…

“Brunch after church…”

“Light show at the zoo…”

“Well, if you don’t want to see the Nutcracker, we can get tickets for the dinner theatre in Springboro. They always do a Christmas show. I think it’s _White Christmas_ this year.”

“Sure,” he said.

“John,” she said. “Are you even listening?”

“Of course.” He smiled.

London / Sherlock

“Stop pouting.” Victor was looking in the mirror, straightening his tie. He glanced at Sherlock, who was pretending to read something on his phone. “I can’t bring you with me this time.”

“This time,” said Sherlock. “Does that mean that eventually you’ll be ready to acknowledge our relationship?”

“Sherlock.” Victor turned, rolling his eyes. “This is not the time.”

“Other candidates drag their significant others to fund-raising events. You’re afraid our relationship will harm your chances.”

“You’re not my husband,” Victor said. “Gay marriage isn’t legal— yet.”

“Oh, so you’re going to work on that once you’re elected.”

Victor sighed. “You know I can’t.”

“Yes, support for gay rights would definitely torpedo your chances of staying in office.”

“Don’t be like that. You know I would—”

Sherlock stood abruptly and glared at his boyfriend. “Don’t. Don’t even try to justify it.”

Victor put on his coat. “Well, I’ll see you later, then. It’ll be late, so don’t feel you have to wait up.”

“I won’t.”

He flopped down into his chair. _I used to know you._

Maybe he hadn’t. Or, more likely, he’d misread Victor’s intentions. A continuing theme in his life…

While they were still at uni, Victor had been fun-loving, more social than Sherlock, but accepting of his differences. He had dragged Sherlock to parties, but understood when it got to be too much. Handsome and outgoing, he never seemed to lack for friends.

The cocaine had helped with his social awkwardness, he admitted. And Victor never let things get out of control on that front. Perhaps even then he was thinking of a political career, unwilling to have any skeletons in his closet to be discovered just as his career was taking off.

Sherlock saw it clearly now: he was one of those skeletons. Victor, so liberal a few years ago, could not afford to be gay now. Sherlock was being demoted from _boyfriend_ (however silly that title was) to _friend._ Eventually, he might be introduced as a _colleague._

It would happen soon. Victor would act a bit embarrassed, as if this had all simply been a lark, an experiment, or whatever might make it sound like something not meant to last. He would become one of those politicians who was always backpedaling, always giving vaguely-worded explanations for past behaviour, like the ones who insisted, _I didn’t inhale_. The actual words might sound sincere, but the intention would be to quickly distance himself from Sherlock. _Time to move on_ , he would say first. And then: _We were just boys, playing around._ And finally: _I didn’t know you were taking things so seriously._

Sherlock took things seriously. Words meant what they meant. That was who he was. He had taken Victor seriously, loved him for who he was. They would argue, but he had never demanded that Victor change. He’d assumed that Victor felt the same way. Now, he understood. Victor hadn’t wanted anything long term; he was moving on.

He remembered another humiliation, years ago, in New York. _Serendipity. John. The phone number floating skyward, a lost opportunity._ He’d misread things that time as well.

When Victor came home, he decided, he would be gone, every scrap of his existence removed from the flat. Even staying with Mycroft for a few days was preferable to staying here, where his significance to Victor had become a liability.

Chicago / John

“You can’t hide here forever,” Molly said. “Do you want me to get you a sandwich or something?” He was in the pathology lab, avoiding Mary. He’d told her he had to work through lunch and to go ahead without him.

He snorted. “You scold me, but you continue to enable my avoidance.”

“I don’t want you to starve to death,” she said. “And you should just tell her you don’t want to go.”

He smiled grimly. “That’s not how our relationship works.”

“People in love are supposed to be able to talk things out. Do you love her?”

“I… think so. I don't know.”

“Then maybe it isn’t meant to be, John. You’ve only been together a year. It’s not like you’re married.”

“She was there for me when I came home from Afghanistan, wounded. I don’t know what I would have done without her. She expects me to propose, and I feel like I should. I owe her.”

Molly smiled. “She’s a nurse. Taking care of you was her job. You don’t owe her anything, and you _don’t_ have to marry her.” She sat down beside him. “There’s a name for it, you know: Florence Nightingale Syndrome.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to propose?”

“I haven’t asked her yet.” He sighed. “I think she wants it to happen over Christmas. In Ohio.” Saying it out loud depressed him. Ohio depressed him.

“Just tell her,” said Molly. “A few minutes of angst, or a lifetime of regrets?”

He couldn’t explain it to Molly. When he’d met Mary, he’d felt like dying. His shattered shoulder and the resulting tremor meant he couldn’t be a surgeon any more. Even without all the memories— the battlefield, the friends he’d lost, the general feeling that the entire enterprise was hopeless— even without the PTSD, he’d had plenty to be depressed about. And Mary had been there. She’d cheerfully bullied him into counselling, encouraged him in physiotherapy, made sure he ate and did his exercises. She never gave up, always telling him he would recover and life would go on. He appreciated everything she’d done. She loved him as he was, broken, depressed, and battered by memories. She really loved him.

He thought he’d loved her. And maybe it was enough to like her, to appreciate her, to think she was good for him. Marriages were built on common interests, mutual respect, a similar outlook. A checklist of values. A survey: _on a scale of one to five…_

It hadn’t felt that way at the beginning. Their meeting was a coincidence. The nurse assigned to him had been stricken with appendicitis. Mary replaced her. She blew into the room like fresh air and sunshine, chattering and smiling. Her cheerfulness was contagious. When he was released from hospital, she invited him to a party. It turned out that they had friends in common, doctors and nurses that he’d worked with before enlisting. From Ohio originally, she’d taken a job at the veteran’s hospital in Chicago, joking that she’d come for the weather. He’d liked her— a lot. It felt as if it was meant to happen.

He didn’t love her.

“John,” said Molly. “If you care at all for her, it would be kinder to tell her, rather then letting her keep on thinking you feel the same.”

“You’re right,” he admitted. “I just don’t know how to say it.”

London / Sherlock

His phone was ringing. Victor’s number.

When he didn’t answer, a text appeared.

— _What is going on? VT_

_— Isn’t it obvious? SH_

_— Sherlock, we need to talk. VT_

_— I have nothing to say that I haven’t already said. SH_

_— I’m sorry. VT_

_— For what? SH_

_— For leaving you at home tonight. I promise next time I’ll bring you along. VY_

_— Please come home. VT_

_— No. SH_

_— Come on, love. I’ll make it up to you. VT_

_— No. SH_

In the morning, he called Lestrade, asked if he had any cases.

“Not right now,” the DI said. “You getting bored?”

“Yes. So bored that I will take whatever you’ve got.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“If you’re not planning to see him any longer,” Mycroft said, “perhaps you should explain this to him. Or are you waiting for him to out himself with a public apology?”

Sherlock winced. It was all obvious, no explanation necessary. “I’m not planning to see him ever again, if I can help it. I don’t care whether he apologises or not. He doesn’t mean anything he says. And he means nothing to me.”

“Sherlock,” he said. “This is not the end of the world. He is not worth the sentiment you have spent on him. You will recover.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “I’m fine.”

Mycroft gave him a smile that might have passed for fond. “Yes, you’re fine.”

 _Five years_. He’d wasted five years thinking that he and Victor would spend their lives together. He’d blamed himself for the break at first, knowing that he wasn’t good at relationships. But the more he looked at it, the more convinced he became that Victor had been planning his exit for months. Then he became angry. This was not a simple misunderstanding.

He thought again, for the one millionth time, of John and the day they’d shared a banana split. He’d thought then, despite the illogic of it all, that chance had bought him to this man. Afterwards, he’d read the code in John’s words. Up until the moment that slip of paper had been taken by the wind, everything seemed to be tending towards… maybe. It had never been a sure thing, Sherlock acknowledged. He knew that he was not an easy person to love.

Perhaps Victor had tried his best, but just didn’t have it in him.

But John. He’d left Sherlock with a memory of a day well spent, but nothing after that day. Their meeting had led him to suspend logic, to trust in romance and destiny and the universe. Stupid, really, to have trusted in an undefined ending. He should have seen it coming. Destiny would never have allowed romance. They might have called each other a few times, maybe exchanged emails. Eventually, it would have petered out into embarrassed silence.

_If fate wants us to meet again._

The odds were never in their favour. Yet, in spite of logic and reason and probability, he had believed. On some level, he had expected to be rejected. On another entirely different level, he had hoped.

 _Never again_ , he vowed. But he did not stop visiting used bookstores.

Lestrade called. “I’ve got a case for you.”

Chicago / John

Mary took it, but not well. She cried. She raged. John apologised, moved out, called her and apologised more. Sent flowers with a note: _I’m sorry._ When he returned to pick up the rest of his things, he told her that he was moving into Molly’s apartment in Kenwood. She had another meltdown.

“You— and her?” she said, dumbfounded. “All this time…”

“No,” he replied. “It isn’t like that. We’re just friends, nothing romantic.”

“Friends with benefits,” she said, her eyes narrowing.

He sighed. “Just friends.” _As if I could ever find two women willing to fight over me._

Within two weeks, Mary was dating the new oncologist.

“Do you believe in destiny?” he asked Molly. They were watching a silly movie about a man and a woman whose initial dislike gradually turns to passion. He wasn’t really paying attention. Maybe it was about a man who falls in love with a woman who’s doomed to die in six months. Or a time-traveler who meets his true love while waiting in line for coffee. It didn't matter; Molly's movies were all the same.

“You mean like Greek tragedy?” she said. “Like where something is destined to happen and if you try to avoid it, you’re just going to run into it harder?”

“I mean, like there are no coincidences. Things happen for a reason.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But people can choose their own destiny, too.”

“The universe is rarely so lazy.”

She muted the commercial. “What does that mean?”

“It means that maybe… maybe I’m an idiot.”

She patted his knee. “You’re not. Mary wasn’t right for you. Don’t blame yourself.” She stood up from the couch and rummaged in her purse, finally retrieving an envelope. Smiling, she handed it to him. “For you. An early Christmas present.”

“Tickets,” he said, opening the envelope. Plane tickets to London. Show tickets. _The Phantom of the Opera, Billy Elliot._ Ballet tickets. _The Nutcracker._ “Molly, this must have cost you a fortune!”

“Well, it’s as much a present for me as it is for you. I’ve always wanted to spend Christmas in London, and here you are, no family to spend the holiday with, and here I am, dysfunctional family and no boyfriend, so I thought you might go with me.”

She didn’t know. He’d never told anyone about William or the day they spent together.

“Molly, you know I don’t… I can’t…”

She rolled her eyes. “I love you, John, but— no offence— you’re more like a brother,” she said. “We’ve known each other since college. I’m not trying to turn things romantic between us. I like what we have.” She was looking at him a bit anxiously, biting her lip. “If you’d rather not, I can ask my sister…”

“No— I’d love to go,” he said. _Serendipity_ , he thought.

London / Sherlock

“Did my brother put you up to this?” He set the file down on the DI’s desk. “This isn’t a case— it’s a foregone conclusion. It’ll take a couple hours to interview the witness, something you could easily do via Skype, since she is willing to talk. I’m not even sure why my presence would be required.”

“You know face-to-face interviews are always best,” said Lestrade, looking a bit shifty. “It’ll be fun. We’ll spend a couple days in the city, seeing the sights, and fly home in time for Christmas.”

“Fun,” Sherlock said.

“Yes,” Lestrade said. “You’ve heard of fun, haven’t you? I’m guessing your definition is a bit different from mine. You think it’s fun to blow up your new flat, I suppose.”

“I didn’t blow it up. I just… neglected an experiment. Smoked up the place a bit. Nothing serious.”

“Look, Mycroft asked me and I said I would. He’s worried about you since you broke up with—”

Sherlock growled. “Don’t say the name. I’ve managed to delete that person from my mind palace.” _Well, almost_. Victor had sent numerous apologies— flowers, hand-written notes, even a telegram. After two weeks, the attempts finally stopped.

“Your brother’s worried about you. You’ve been moping around for weeks over this bloke. Time to move on. It’ll do you good to get away, even for a few days.” Lestrade rolled his eyes impatiently. “Come on, Sherlock. You need a distraction, and I’m game to do this. You might actually enjoy it.”

“Very well,” he said after a long pause. “I will cooperate, but only because Mycroft will make it much more unbearable if I don’t.”

“That’s what I like,” said Lestrade, grinning. “A sense of adventure.”

 _I’ll go, but I won’t enjoy it._ He would trudge through it regretting the day he’d spent there seven years earlier, the coincidence he’d allowed to walk away from him.

London / John

It was raining in London. Nobody seemed surprised except John Watson. “Why did I picture snow?” he asked the universe.

Molly replied, “Because you’ve seen _A Christmas Carol_ too many times.”

“Which version?”

She shrugged. “Whichever one had the most snow. I know your secret, John. You’ve seen every Christmas movie. You’re a junkie.”

“I was,” he said in a doomed voice. “Until one Christmas, when my father wanted to surprise us. We found his rotting body stuck in the chimney five days later—”

“Oh, shut up!” she said. “I hated _Gremlins_.”

“We might have found him sooner,” John continued, undeterred, “if the temperature hadn’t dropped. When we found him, his body was frozen—”

“Shut up! Shut up!” said Molly, stuffing her fingers in her ears. “Worst Christmas movie ever!”

“Sorry,” he said, giggling. “I think I’m still jet-lagged. Not responsible for bursts of whimsey.”

She smiled. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Look,” he said, pointing. “An Italian restaurant. Are you hungry?”

“British food is actually pretty good,” she said. “But I could go for some lasagna.”

“My treat,” he said. “Since you’ve paid for everything else, the least I can do is buy you dinner.”

They were escorted to a cozy table by the owner, a man who introduced himself as Angelo. He left them with menus, returned with a candle. “For romance,” he said, bowing. “Wine?”

“Yes, please,” Molly said. “Red. Whatever you recommend.”

“I have a lovely Chianti for you. Such a beautiful couple.” He winked at them.

“We’re not—” John began. But Angelo had already disappeared behind the bar, greeting other guests as he opened a bottle of wine.

The food was delicious. Angelo kept an eye on them, filling their glasses when they were almost empty, appearing with dessert menus when the lasagna was gone.

“American, yes?” he asked. “New York?”

“Chicago,” said John.

“Ah, gangsters! Bang-bang!” He laughed.

“Not so much these days,” Molly said. “Just windy politicians.”

“Well, dessert is on the house for my American friends,” he said. “Tira misu?

When they were so full that they were practically groaning, he brought them the check, along with two small glasses of grappa.

“Everything was delicious,” Molly said. “We’ll never forget it.”

John was looking in his wallet for the correct amount, trying to figure out the tip. “What’s this?” He pulled out a five dollar bill. “I thought I changed all my currency at the airport before we left.”

Molly smiled. “They gave you that on the plane, when you paid for our drinks.”

He set it on the table, counted out the correct number of pounds and handed them to Angelo. “Wonderful meal,” he said.

Angelo beamed and bowed to them, headed for the cash register.

“ _William Sherlock Scott Holmes_ ,” Molly said. “ _011-44-20-6238-3518.”_

“What?” He startled, felt his heart starting to pound. She was looking at the American bill. “What did you say?”

“Somebody wrote their name and phone number on this fiver,” she said. “Strange way to pick somebody up.”

He gasped. “Molly—!”

“Weird. It’s a London phone number, but it’s written on an American bill.”

He took the bill from her and stared at the lettering. His name. William. _William Sherlock Scott Holmes._ His eyes filled, remembering that beautiful, alien face, those cheekbones, those eyes... He remembered holding hands, falling on the ice at Rockefeller Center. He remembered the slip of paper, the sudden gust of wind…

“John— you’re crying! What’s wrong?”

He shook his head, unable to speak.

As they walked back to the hotel, he attempted to explain. 

“Okay, tell me this again,” Molly said. “You met this guy in New York seven years ago?”

“Yes! That’s what I’ve been telling you! We spent the afternoon together, decided to exchange phone numbers. Well, I decided. And I knew he would never call, so I turned it into a stupid experiment. We would put our numbers out into the universe. So dumb.” He smacked himself in the forehead. “God! I’m such a fool!”

“Calm down, John,” she said, forcing him to sit on the bed. “So, you told him to write down his name and phone number on a five dollar bill, and then you bought some chewing gum.”

“It was… a dumb idea,” he said. “The wind carried the paper away the first time he wrote it, and it seemed like an omen. I thought, maybe we weren’t supposed to meet.”

“So you didn’t keep his number?”

“No— I thought… well, I was afraid he wasn’t interested. And I thought I wasn’t gay. And it was all so… _serendipitous_ meeting him, that I couldn’t believe my luck.”

“So you basically threw his number away. And now you think you’re gay and you wish you hadn’t. And here it is.”

John put his head in his hands. “He would never have called me.”

“John, are you gay?” she asked softly.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Yes— I think I am. Or bi. I don’t know.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I only know that I’ve regretted it every day since then. I’ve imagined finding him again so many times, I can’t count. I wish… Oh, god, I’m an idiot.”

“Well,” said Molly, putting on her calm, sensible voice. “Now you have his number. Shall we call him?”

“Call him?” John gaped at her.

“If the universe sends signs out to us, surely this is a sign, isn’t it? An omen? Serendipity?”

“It was seven years ago. He won’t remember me. I'm sure he's changed his number since then.”

“John, you’re too hard on yourself. He’s probably been kicking himself for seven years, wishing he hadn’t agreed to this silly experiment.”

“I can’t.”

“You have to. If he doesn’t remember you, so what? You’re no worse off—”

“Yes, I am,” he said. “I will lose the memory of that day. I’ve spent the last seven years thinking of him. When I was in Afghanistan, under fire, I thought, _I’ve got to survive so I can find him._ It was a stupid dream, but it kept me alive.”

“We’re calling now,” she said, lifting the phone.

“No!” he cried, but she was already pushing the buttons.

“Hello,” she said. “I’m calling for William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

The person on the other end said something incomprehensible.

She nodded at John, smiling. “You know him? Where can I reach him, then?”

She wrote something on the pad next to the phone. “Thank you. We’re staying at the Americana near Regent’s Park. Give us a call if you hear from him.” She set the phone down.

John’s eyes were wide.

“That was his former flatmate, Victor. William moved out weeks ago, and he doesn’t know where he lives now. He gave me his brother’s phone number, but said that he’s such a prick that he probably won’t tell us anything. Shall we try?”

John nodded speechlessly.

In a few minutes she was talking to another person. “You can’t give me any information about him? A man named Victor Trevor gave me this number. We’re trying to locate Mr Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.” She paused, listening. “An old friend. Yes, visiting from America. Only in town for another day, so we’d appreciate it if you… I understand.” She turned to John, mouthing _on hold._ After several minutes a voice came back on the line. “Yes, please. The name is John Watson. We’re staying at the Americana Hotel. Thank you for your time.”

She hung up, turned to John again. “She wouldn’t tell me anything. I think she was a secretary or something, probably doesn’t want to get in trouble with her boss. He wasn’t available. She said she’d leave our message.”

She stood and slipped her arms into her coat once more. Shouldering her purse, she smiled at John. “Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Wherever serendipity leads us.”

New York / Sherlock

He and Lestrade checked into their hotel on Central Park. Mycroft had insisted on a nice suite, with separate rooms, a fully stocked bar, and a jacuzzi. Sherlock doubted they’d use the jacuzzi, but it was a nice gesture. Maybe Lestrade liked sitting in a hot water bath, but Sherlock didn’t care for it.

_Why would people want to celebrate such a dismal holiday?_

It was two in the afternoon by the time they’d settled in. Their hotel was on the park, so they walked a bit, enjoying the lights. Lestrade had never been in the States and seemed keen on seeing all there was to see.

“I was here once before,” he said in response to Lestrade’s question. “Seven years ago. I think I saw everything worth seeing that time.”

“Well, I hope you don’t mind seeing it all again,” the DI replied. “I’d like to see the statue of Liberty. Can we go up inside?”

“We’ll have to take the ferry. I don’t think that we can go up in the crown at this time of year, though.”

“Well, maybe the Empire State Building, then. I want to see it all, from above. Which museums do you want to see?”

He thought of John and their afternoon at the Met. He shrugged. “Whatever you like.”

They spent a couple days seeing all the tourist destinations. Tiring of that, they walked, getting the feel of the city, so different from London. Lestrade shopped for presents for his children and ex-wife, picked up chocolate and taffy for the office, and ate bagels. “Too bad these won’t travel back,” he said, chewing. “I think they’d turn into concrete by the time we reach London.”

Afterwards, they walked through the park and explored a few neighbourhoods. And then, there is was. He’d tried to avoid it, but in their walking tour, Lestrade had spotted it. “Serendipity,” he said. “Well, it seems like destiny has brought us here. Shall we have some lunch?”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly.

Lestrade shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m hungry, though.”

He looked at the awning, imagining John standing there. _No, the universe is never that lazy_. Lestrade was looking at him curiously.

“Fine,” he said. “We’ll eat there.”

Fortunately they were seated at a front booth, not the cozy back table where he’d sat last time. Lestrade ordered a Reuben sandwich. Sherlock asked for an omelette, being careful not to look at the dessert menu.

“You okay?”

Sherlock pulled his eyes away from the people waiting to be seated. “Hm? Oh, yes. I’m fine.”

“You look like you’re expecting someone.”

“I’m not.”

“We were talking about museums,” said Lestrade. “I looked at the guidebook over breakfast, and I think I’d like to see the Metropolitan Museum. I’m not much of an art fancier, but it sounds interesting.”

Sherlock nodded. “It is.”

“How about you? Would that suit you for this afternoon?”

It wasn’t actually painful to walk through the galleries, imagining another man walking at his side. Melancholy was what he felt, not pain. An eidetic memory is a useful thing to have, he thought, but at a time like this, he almost wished for blissful forgetfulness. If Lestrade noticed his distraction, he didn’t say anything. Their silence was congenial. The halls echoed with footsteps of strangers, hundreds of people who might have been here before, maybe even on that day when he and John had met. Only John had any significance.

“You seem tired,” Lestrade said as they walked out of the museum. “Hotel?”

“That would be good. Jet lag, I think.” He needed some solitude, he decided. T _oo many memories, an excess of sentiment._

They stopped at the desk so Lestrade could check for messages. While he waited, the clerk behind the desk smiled at him and raised a finger.

“Mr Holmes? I have a package for you.” He slid a thick envelope across the counter.

Sherlock frowned. _Victor’s handwriting._

They stepped into the lift. Lestrade pushed their floor and the doors swished closed. Sherlock held the package, feeling the edges of something hard. A book?

Victor was no longer a threat to his emotions, he realised. Though Sherlock had known him for years, Victor Trevor had been eclipsed by the mere memory of one afternoon with John, a man he hadn’t seen since. If serendipity had not brought them together, he might now be melting at the sight of his name written in Victor’s handwriting. He might have thought he was in love with him.

“Are you going to open it?” Lestrade was opening the door to their suite.

“I am.” He sat on the sofa and peeled the flap back. _Yes, a book_. He slid it out of the package, turned it over and read the cover. _Ian Fleming. Diamonds are Forever._

“James Bond?” Lestrade grinned. “I didn’t figure you for the type.”

Sherlock was staring at the book in his hand. Breathlessly, he opened to the inside cover. There. _John H Watson. 1-312-326-1707._

Lestrade bent and picked up the note that had fallen. He handed it to Sherlock.

_Dear Sherlock, I understand that you don’t want to see me. It seems self-serving for me to claim that I never meant to hurt you, but I realise now how much that matters to me. I did hurt you, and I regret it more than I can express. I hope that in time you will not think too badly of me. As a peace offering, I want you to have this book. Though I never saw you reading James Bond, I remember you asking for this book every time we went into a used bookstore. I don’t know what meaning it has for you, but I hope it’s what you’ve been looking for. Best wishes always, Victor._

“Sherlock—” Lestrade gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “Are you crying?”

“Why did you never say?” Lestrade asked when he’d explained the significance of the book. “You’ve got Scotland Yard at your disposal— we could have found him for you!”

“How? I had a first name, John. A hometown, Chicago. He was a medical student. There had to have been hundreds, thousands of people fitting that description. I didn’t even think to take a picture of him.” He shook his head, still holding the book to his chest. “Besides, that would be cheating. The universe would bring us back together, he said, if it was meant to be.”

Lestrade shrugged. “Not very scientific. But you’ve got his number now. Might as well ring him up, see what he has to say for himself.”

“He won’t remember me,” Sherlock said, opening to the flyleaf again. “It was just a silly experiment.”

“Come on. I can’t believe you’re not even curious.”

“He… wasn’t interested.” Sherlock felt his face flushing. “Not gay.”

“You fancied him.”

“Yes. I was an idiot.”

“Well, I suppose love at first sight is a bit much for your logical brain, but why not? And if he’s not interested, you’re just an old friend, right? Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Sherlock studied the number. “It’s not local. He was from Chicago. He’s probably got a new number by now.”

“Ring it and see. My parents have had the same number for forty years.” He handed Sherlock the telephone.

His hands were sweating. “I can’t.”

“Give it here,” Lestrade said. “I’ll do it.”

Sherlock could hear the phone ringing… and ringing. Finally, a voice. A woman’s voice, from the sound. Lestrade listened, then cut the call without saying anything. “Stephanie and Tim. They wish us a Merry Christmas.”

He hadn’t realised he was holding his breath. Closing his eyes, he slowly let it out. Relief and disappointment washed over him. Relief that he could carry on pretending that John might remember him, that he might want to hear from him, that he might have spent seven years regretting the way they had parted. Disappointment that he’d never really know.

Lestrade was making another call. “Flight reservations, please.”

Sherlock frowned and shook his head. _What are you doing?_

“Thank you. I’d like to book a flight to Chicago. Two people. Today, if possible. Yes, that will be perfect. I’ll give you the card number.”

Hanging up, he turned to Sherlock. “Pack your bags, mate. We’re going to the Windy City.”


	3. 2009, Part 2

London / John

“This is like a mystery,” Molly said, walking briskly past the rows of terraced houses. “An Agatha Christie mystery. Only there’s no dead body in the library. Just a mysterious stranger with dark hair and blue eyes. You did say his eyes were blue, didn’t you?”

“Blue-green,” he said, hustling along after her.

“Right. Tall, dark, and handsome. Victor called him Sherlock, not William. I wonder why.”

 _Because he didn’t really want to know me. He didn’t want me to stalk him, the way I’m doing now._ “Wait a minute, Moll.”

She turned and stood expectantly. The rain had stopped. Now it was just the greyest, coldest day they’d had since arriving. Molly’s cheeks were pink, her eyes bright. “You’re not giving up yet, are you? Destiny awaits, John.”

“No, it’s just… Could we stop and eat? I need to sit for a while.”

She pointed. “There’s Angelo’s. Shall we eat there again?”

John hesitated. The night of their dinner at the restaurant, he’d been filled with elation, terror— and hope. He felt less hopeful now, after chasing around London, looking for evidence of Sherlock Holmes’ existence. The number in the phone book was the one they’d already called. He assumed Sherlock had a new address as well, but the directory hadn’t caught up with him yet.

“Come on, John. It was good luck eating there before. Maybe we’ll find another clue.”

Smiling gamely, he agreed. It was her present, this trip, and she ought to be able to call the shots. Clearly, she was enjoying this.

Angelo recognised them and did not even present them with menus. “I know just what you’ll love. Calzones, fresh from the oven.” He gave them another wink and showed them to _their_ table.

“Don’t forget the candle,” Molly said.

He grinned. “Ah, young love.”

The food was again delicious. They ate in silence for a while.

“Well,” Molly said, wiping her mouth. “There can’t be more than one Sherlock Holmes in London. How hard can it be to find him?”

“There are eight million people living here. If he doesn’t want to be found, I can’t imagine it would be hard for him to hide.”

“Mm. But he must have a job. Maybe we can Google him.”

John’s eyes strayed to the walls of the restaurant. Like many small restaurant owners, Angelo had pictures of himself with celebrity customers. He imagined some were local politicians or important business owners. A few seemed to be footballers. And one photo… he squinted, wondering if he was imagining it…

He stood suddenly, rattling the dishes on their table, his breath caught in his throat.

Molly grabbed his hand. “John, what is it?”

Eyes on the photograph, he crossed the room, squeezing between two tables, whose tenants looked a bit surprised. “It’s him.” He pointed to the picture.

Molly made apologies to the diners John had disturbed, joined him in looking at the framed photo.

“This is William,” John said. In the photo, a man in a long coat was standing rather stiffly, his arm around Angelo’s shoulders, as if the photographer had told him to do so. His smile, however was genuine, not posed. The picture was signed, _to Angelo from your friend, Sherlock_. “It’s him— Sherlock Holmes.”

“You know him?” Angelo had appeared behind them.

“We’re trying to find him,” Molly supplied.

“He’s my friend.” Angelo smiled proudly. “Lucky for you, he lives just a few blocks from here.”

From Angelo, they learned that Sherlock was a detective— “A _consulting_ detective,” he said. “Very brilliant. He save me from a murder charge.”

They walked to the address: 221B Baker Street. For a moment they stood before the building. A sandwich shop occupied the ground floor. John looked up at the window, thinking he might see a face, but there was no one looking down at them.

Molly gave John’s hand a reassuring squeeze. “I hope he’s home.”

John wasn’t sure what he was hoping. Perhaps number one was _not to look like a fool_. He raised the ancient door knocker, imagining Scrooge seeing Marley’s face in one similar to this one. _I am the ghost of missed opportunities, of chances foolishly forfeited_. He knocked three times, then nervously listened as footsteps tapped across the floor inside.

The door opened, revealing an elderly lady. “May I help you?”

“We’re looking for Sherlock Holmes,” John said, gathering his courage.

She gave them a puzzled frown. “Clients?”

“No, we’re friends,” Molly said. “In town for just a few days.”

“American?”

“Yes, from Chicago. Is he home?” John asked.

“Oh, dear. You’ve missed him. Probably crossed paths, even.”

“Where was he headed?” Molly asked eagerly. “Perhaps we can catch him.”

“America,” she said. “He’s been gone a few days now. He’s in New York on a case.”

“New York!” they said together.

“How long?” Molly asked, at the same moment John asked, “What hotel?”

“I don’t know, dears. He said he’d be gone at least a week. Have you tried his brother?”

“He was busy,” Molly said. “He couldn’t talk to us.”

The woman shook her head. “I’m sorry I can’t give you more information than that. I’d give you his mobile, but I’m sure it won’t connect. He said he’d give me the number of the hotel, in case I needed to reach him, but naturally he’s forgotten.”

“It’s all right,” John said. “Thank you very much, Mrs…”

“Hudson,” she said. “Emma Hudson. May I give him your name, in case he does finally ring me?”

“Just tell him John stopped by,” he said. “John Watson.” Sherlock wouldn’t recognise his name, he was sure, but it didn’t hurt to leave a clue for him to follow.

She nodded. “I’ll be sure to tell him.”

As she began to close the door, John turned back to her. “Tell him… tell him _it’s serendipity._ ”

“Serendipity?” Her look was puzzled.

He smiled. “Yes. Tell him that that _serendipity_ called. He’ll understand.”

They returned to the hotel. Molly phoned and had their reservations changed so they could leave a day earlier than planned. “That’ll give us a day in New York to call all the hotels.”

“Sounds hopeless. He’s probably already on his way back here. We might as well stand in the airport with a sign.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said. “Destiny wants you to be together. We’re just following her lead.”

The phone jangled, making them both jump.

John picked it up. “Hello?”

“This is Victor Trevor,” a voice said. “Molly Hooper called me earlier today.”

“Yes, I’m with her. Have you heard from Sherlock?”

“No, but I remembered where he’s staying. I had to send him something there, just found the note I’d scribbled it on. It’s the Essex House, on Central Park.”

“Thank you.” He grinned at Molly. “That was Destiny calling, I think.”

Chicago / Sherlock

They stood in the middle of O’Hare’s main concourse. Sherlock was staring at his surroundings, dazed. Looking into those tired eyes, Lestrade was sure that he hadn’t slept on the plane. Not that Sherlock ever slept. Nevertheless, he looked exhausted.

“It’s late,” Lestrade said. “Let’s get a room here, at the airport, and work out our game plan tonight.”

“Fine.” Sherlock stared doubtfully at the floor as travellers rushed by on both sides.

“Come on, Sherlock. This is what you do— solve puzzles, find missing people. We can do this.”

He nodded. If he could think of this as a case, something that didn’t involve his heart, perhaps he could do it.

Once checked into a Marriott, they sat in the bar, Lestrade eating a pizza and Sherlock sipping mineral water.

“I think I like the New York style better,” the DI said, eyeballing the thickness of the crust.

“He was a medical student,” Sherlock said. “University of Chicago. He was working at their hospital, training as a surgeon. Though he is from Chicago, there is no guarantee that he stayed.”

“But it’s a place to begin.” He took a sip of the beer, made a face. “They call this the king of beers?”

“He could be married by now.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure he hasn’t changed his name.” Lestrade stopped a waiter. “Where can I find a telephone directory?”

Sherlock tried to imagine John’s hypothetical wife and how she would hypothetically feel if he showed up on their doorstep with a story about a five-dollar bill and a used James Bond book. Hypothetically, she would think him crazy. He supposed that he and John would laugh about the coincidence of them finding one another, drink a beer, talk about their present lives… and then the conversation would peter out into awkward silence. They would say their goodbyes, and it would be all over. _Have a nice life._ Then he could stop wondering, stop imagining that John might have felt something for him.

The waiter returned with a thick phone book. “Don’t rip any pages out,” he said. “It’s from the concierge’s desk.”

“Blimey,” Lestrade said, paging through the W’s. “There are pages of them. Thousands. John H, right? Not that a middle initial helps much. We’ll call the university in the morning.”

He fell asleep thinking of John, drifted dreamlessly, woke to see Lestrade looking down at him. “Breakfast?”

He felt no hunger, just apprehension. The hotel had a buffet, though, and Lestrade wanted to eat, so he quickly washed and went down to the lobby to meet the DI.

Lestrade filled his plate with eggs and waffles, wondered where the beans were, and poured syrup over everything. Sherlock asked for a cup of coffee, added two packets of sugar, and avoided the tiny tubs of hazelnut-flavoured fake cream.

“So,” the older man began, studying Sherlock. “What was it about this bloke that drew your attention?”

Sherlock shrugged. “He was not pretentious. Didn’t act like an idiot. One could have a conversation with him.”

Lestrade chuckled. “He must be special, then. _Not an idiot._ I don't think I've ever heard you praise another human being so highly. What’s he look like? Do you have a picture?”

“He is approximately 166 centimetres tall, at that time weighing just over ten stone. Blond hair. Dark blue eyes. No picture. I had left my camera at the hotel that day since I wasn’t planning to do any more sight-seeing.”

Lestrade grinned. “Sounds attractive. One centimetre, an ounce or two either way, and you might never have noticed him.”

Sherlock was not sure, but from the other man’s tone, he supposed that he was being teased.

“Maybe he's put on a couple stone in the last seven years,” Lestrade went on. “Maybe his hair has fallen out.”

“Don't try to be funny, Lestrade. You're not good at it. Physical appeal is a significant element of initial attraction, but clearly other things are more important in the long run.” He sincerely hoped that John had not lost his hair, but it was something to consider. Seven years had gone by since he'd last seen him, and he had to admit that he'd often thought about that tight arse under the ugly jumper. He'd thought about the dimples that appeared when John had smiled at him.

“So, you’re thinking of the long term,” Lestrade observed.

“Maybe,” he said. “Perhaps he will not be interested. Or, as I said, he may already be in a relationship.” Actually, it would surprise him if John were not in a relationship. An obviously attractive man, a doctor to boot, single in a city full of women, could hardly avoid meeting someone compatible.

“You're worried.”

“Worry serves no purpose at this point. I cannot alter the last seven years. It is what it is, and what it is only awaits revelation.”

“So, what's our plan?”

“Billings Hospital was where he worked, so we will begin there. They should have a record of his employment, and perhaps an address.”

The hospital did have a file on him as a former employee, but it took Lestrade’s badge to get them to show it to them. Sherlock suspected that their accents helped, too. Americans unconsciously bowed to Received Pronunciation, he noted.

John Watson had lived on Woodlawn Avenue at that time, the clerk said. “He was a surgical resident then. Those are student apartments still, at least some are. A lot of have been renovated into condos.”

Woodlawn Avenue was a tree-lined street with brownstone buildings of flats. 5439 Woodlawn was on a corner. The pressed the buzzer for an apartment on the third floor and waited.

A man’s voice came over the intercom. “Who is it?”

“Looking for John Watson,” said Lestrade. “Does he still live here?”

“Nobody here by that name,” the voice replied.

Sherlock sighed. They could hardly have expected John to still be living in student housing. Even with internship, residency and years added on for clinical specialisation, seven years was a long time.

“He was a resident at Billings,” Lestrade said. “Surgery.”

“Sorry.”

“Let’s go,” Sherlock said. “There’s nothing to be gained here.”

Lestrade frowned at him. “Show some persistence, mate. You’re supposed to be the one who asks questions, pisses people off, and eventually gets them to tell you things. We’ll go back to the hospital and talk to someone else. Maybe the surgery department remembers him. Maybe someone has stayed in touch.”

“Wait.” The intercom voice spoke again. “I remember him. Blond guy, right? Kinda short?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah, I remember him. He was a couple years ahead of me. Different areas. I think he joined the army.”

“Are you sure?”

“Pretty sure. He went to Afghanistan, I remember someone saying. Never heard anything about him after that.”

“Do you know any of his friends?”

“Mike Stamford was a buddy of his. Teaches at the U of C.”

Dr Stamford was a chubby, pleasant man who was happy to make time for them. “John’s a good friend. I haven’t talked with him in weeks, though. He’s working at a Northside clinic. Can’t do surgery anymore. Shot in the shoulder, has a tremor in his hand.”

“So, he’s a GP now?”

Mike nodded. “Last I heard, he was getting engaged to a nurse.” He grinned. “About time. We all thought he’d never get married.”

“Where’s this clinic?” Lestrade asked.

Address in hand, they caught a train north, through downtown, to Evanston. They had landed at night on the previous day, so this was Sherlock’s first view of the skyline as they approached the Loop.

“Impressive,” Lestrade murmured. “Very modern.”

“Almost the entire city burned down in 1871,” said Sherlock. “They had no choice but to modernise.”

“Everything in America feels new,” replied Lestrade. “Even New York isn’t that old, compared with London. So, where will you settle after the wedding? Will he come to London, or will you move to Chicago?”

Sherlock resisted the urge to insult Lestrade, who had been his patient companion on this bizarre scavenger hunt. “We’ll see,” he said quietly. “I’m afraid… that this might be disappointing.”

“That bloke you were living with,” Lestrade said. “Sorry, I promised I wouldn’t mention his name, but he was a tosser. You deserve someone better.”

“Well, I’m not getting my hopes up,” Sherlock replied. “I knew John for a few hours, seven years ago. Hardly a basis for a serious relationship.”

“You felt something,” said Lestrade. “I can see it when you talk about him. Sometimes you just know it.”

“Did you know it when you met your ex-wife?”

Lestrade laughed. “Touché.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I wasn't trying to be rude. I just don’t understand how people decide these things. John said that the universe brings people together. I thought it was silly at the time, to believe that because you bumped into a person in a restaurant, or at a bus stop, or waiting in line for coffee, you were somehow destined to be together.”

“Then why did you go along with the game? Why did you write your name and number on that banknote?”

“Because I liked him, but I saw that he was uncertain. I should have just insisted that we trade numbers then and there, and we could have both got it out of our systems and moved on.”

“Maybe you wouldn’t have moved on. You had chemistry with him.”

Sherlock sighed. “It was New York. We were both strangers in the city, and I suppose— it was romantic. In real life, things like that don’t happen.” _Maybe romance is something people only imagine._ He stared out the window. Large snowflakes had begun to fall, and as they were seated in the front car, it looked like they were flying into a wind tunnel. He thought of all the people he’d known as snowflakes, rushing by as he flew into darkness. “In real life, doctors meet nurses at the clinics where they work. They decide to get married because they don’t believe anyone else will want them, or because they’re afraid of being alone, or because it’s comfortable to have someone waiting for you at home.”

“Is that why you stayed with Victor for three years?”

“I stayed with him because I believed he loved me. I thought he wouldn’t care about other people’s approval. As usual, I was wrong.”

The train pulled into the Evanston station. Mike Stamford had said that the clinic was only a few blocks from the station, so they walked. It was in a fairly modern building, set back from the street by a small parking lot. Lestrade opened the door and let him walk inside first.

Sherlock could smell disinfectant, the kind peculiar to hospitals and clinics. It was a smell he was familiar with, but not particularly fond of. The waiting room was full of mothers with small children, old people with hacking coughs, and several people who looked as if they were taking time off of work. Deducing these people was pointless, but he found that the habit somewhat calmed him. _Thinks she has an STD, hasn't told boyfriend. Stealing money from his boss, using sick days to look for a new job. She wants to return to work, but can’t afford a nanny. His children want to put him into a home for the elderly…_

Lestrade went right to the reception desk and smiled at the woman behind the glass.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

“No.” He put on his best smile. “We’re looking for Dr Watson. We just wanted to say hello while we’re in town.”

“Dr Watson is out of town, on vacation this week.” She turned to the woman at the other window. “Is Mary working today?”

Sherlock’s heart began to thump. Mary was undoubtedly the fiancee. Suddenly he had no idea what to say. He hoped Lestrade would carry on talking for him, because he was certain that he would make a fool of himself if he opened his mouth.

They waited while someone went to find Mary.

“You’d think,” said Lestrade quietly, “that they’d take vacation together.”

Sherlock wondered why he hadn’t thought of this. Sentiment was certainly not helping his thought processes. There were many plausible reasons why he might travel without her. Maybe his mother was ill, or his sister in town…

When she came out, he applied his deductive powers to understanding. _Blond, blue eyes, pretty._ Just the sort of woman who might look like she belonged with John Watson.

“I’m Mary. You were looking for Dr Watson?”

 _Midwestern accent, but not Chicago._ He’d recognise a native Chicagoan, he thought. _She met him after he was wounded. She cared for him while he was recovering. No ring… no ring…_ _no ring_ _…_

“Yes,” Sherlock said before Lestrade could speak. “I met him a number of years ago. We always intended to keep in touch, but you know how it goes. Since I was visiting Chicago, I thought I’d look him up.”

“You’re his fiancee?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock frowned at him. Sometimes Lestrade could be an idiot. How could he not notice that her ring finger was empty? Now she would take offence and not tell them where he’d gone.

The look on her face answered the question before she spoke. “We dated for a while,” she said with deliberate nonchalance.

 _A year, possibly longer. He broke it off. She’s angry._ “The receptionist said he was out of town,” Sherlock said.

“He’s in London,” she said, shrugging. “With some woman, I think.”

_Another woman? So soon? In London?_

The snow was coming down more heavily now, as they walked back to the train station. “I guess we should head back home,” said Lestrade.

“We don’t know how long he’s planning to stay there,” Sherlock said. “We could pass him as we’re flying over the North Atlantic.”

“But now you know where he works. Mike Stamford has his number. You can always call and get it.”

“He has a new girlfriend.”

“Maybe she’s just a friend,” suggested Lestrade.

“Did you not observe?” Sherlock said bitterly. “That woman was angry. She knows very well who _some woman_ is. She was trying to make him sound like a wanker who dumped her for some slut.”

“So that’s it?” Lestrade said as they settled into their seats on a southbound train. “We just drop the entire thing? We’ve put a lot of hours into finding this bloke. I want to see him.” He paused, but Sherlock was silent. “You know, Mycroft probably could have found him for you yesterday. He would have him detained and waiting for you back home. He’s probably scare the shit out of the poor bloke, but there it is.”

“I’m not involving Mycroft,” Sherlock said. “He’s an interfering prat.”

“He sent you to New York so you could get your mind off what’s-his-name. He does care about you, even if you don’t see it.”

“I _don’t_ see it.”

“Well, we’re supposed to fly back to New York tonight.” Lestrade was looking at the snow coming down. “We’d better call and make sure our flight isn’t cancelled. I don’t fancy spending Christmas in Chicago. Nice town, but there’s no place like home.”

Sherlock made a non-committal hum. It didn’t matter to him where he spent the holiday, as long as it wasn’t in New York. That would be too painful.

The departures board at O’Hare listed row upon row of cancelled flights. By some lucky fluke, their flight to New York was on time, leaving as planned, flying into LaGuardia.

Sherlock pulled _Diamonds are Forever_ out of his bag and opened it to the flyleaf. _John H Watson._ He turned to the first chapter and began to read.

New York / John

It was snowing when John and Molly landed in New York. They made their way to the taxi stand and asked for a cab to Essex House, the hotel where Sherlock was staying.

John sat with his fists clenched, trying to will his stomach into submission. _He won’t even remember me. Or if he does, he’ll feel like I’ve been stalking him… He’ll be polite, but distant… He’ll have some beautiful— man? Woman? Do I even know for sure that he’s gay?_

It would be poetic justice if, after so many years of thinking he was straight, he realised the truth about himself — only to fall in love with a straight man.

“Don’t you dare,” Molly said.

“Dare what?”

“Start thinking this is doomed. You’re going to meet him. The universe has brought us back here, where he is. It’s going to happen, John.”

“What if he’s already on his way back to London?” He looked out the window of the cab. The snow was starting to pile up in little drifts. _Maybe we crossed paths, in the middle of the ocean— the universe’s idea of a joke_.

“What if he’s not? Look, you met in New York. It’s only fitting that you find each other again here.”

They pulled up in front of the hotel. John paid the driver and waved him off. _Maybe there’s a bar in here where I can drink my disappointment away._

Molly was marching up to the desk. She smiled at the desk clerk. “Hi. We’re here to see Sherlock Holmes. Can you ring his room for us?”

The clerk frowned at his computer. “He’s checked out, I’m afraid. Yesterday.”

“So, he’s back in London by now.” John felt all the air go out of him. “I need a drink.”

“Let’s go to the airport,” Molly said. “They have bars. Our flight’s in a few hours.” She brushed the snow out of his hair.

After two drinks, he didn’t exactly feel better, but he did feel a bit more philosophical about the whole adventure. “London was fun,” he said. “Thank you for dragging me along.”

“Chasing down your serendipitous friend was fun, too. Maybe you didn’t catch up with him this time, but now you know who he is. You can call him when you get home. Maybe you’ll eventually meet.”

He shook his head slowly “I don’t know, Molly,” he said. “If the universe has a message for me, maybe it’s that it wasn’t meant to be. I never looked for him. There was med school and residency and I felt like I was on an express train, nowhere to get off. So I went to Afghanistan. When I was shot, you know, I was lying there and knew I was bleeding out and I thought of him. I wanted to live, and I made this deal with myself. I said that if I made it home, I would find him. But then there was Mary, and rehab, and trying to fit myself back into life, and I don’t know what happened. I felt like I was living someone else’s life. And the more time that went by, the less I knew what I wanted. When I found that five dollars, I felt like I’d just woke up. I felt alive again.”

She smiled and he saw tears shining in her eyes. “You’ve been a different person these past days, John. You’re the person I knew when we started med school— enthusiastic, adventurous, passionate… I’ve missed that John.”

He took her hand in his. “I’m glad you were with me for this, even if I didn’t find him. I don’t know what I’m going to do next, but I think I’m finally ready to figure it out. I can’t go back to being half-awake.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “The universe is not done with you yet, John Watson. It’s just handed you another chance.”

He gave a short laugh. “Did you see the name of the bar where we’re sitting? _The Last Chance Bar and Grill_.”

“Last chance is still a chance,” she said.

Their flight was delayed, but they’d heard the weather was supposed to clear a bit. To pass the time, they stopped into a bookstore. John wandering, looking at the offerings. He stopped in front of a shelf of James Bond books. _Diamonds are Forever_. Without thinking, he looked at the flyleaf. He didn’t feel like reading after all.

The universe was done sending messages, he decided. No more signs. Now it was all on him. Last chance.

It was too late to get a hotel room by the time they heard their flight was cancelled. The airport was full of people heading home for the holidays, and all the hotel rooms were booked.

“It’s all right,” Molly said, ever the optimist. “We’ll hang out at the gate, see what happens."

“Do you want anything?” he asked. “I think I’ll get some coffee.”

“I’m fine,” she said.

There were lines at every coffeeshop. He kept walking. _Doesn’t matter,_ he thought. _We’ll be here all night anyway._ He got in line at the next place he spotted. Starbucks. He frowned up at the menu, noting the prices. He couldn’t remember how much cash he had left, so he decided to limit himself to a simple cup of coffee. That would tide him over until Molly decided they needed to eat something.

Being snowed in seemed to have made most travellers somewhat less agitated. He saw families obviously on their way to reunite with distant family, sitting and talking, playing video games, reading books or magazines. He saw people traveling alone talking to other stranded travellers, commiserating on their luck, being stuck at LaGuardia at Christmas. Well, maybe someone would make a new friend tonight. He imagined the story they would tell: _I met him at the airport. I knew as soon as I saw him._

“Medium coffee, cream, no sugar,” he told the cashier.

“Do you mean a _grande?_ ”

“No, medium.”

“Grande is medium.”

“But _grande_ means large, doesn’t it?”

“No, that’s _venti._ ”

“Yeah, okay. Fine. _Grande_.”

“Is that a latte?”

“No, just regular coffee.”

“Four sixty-five,” she said.

“New York coffee must be outstanding,” he muttered. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his wallet to pay. There was only one bill left there, the fiver with Sherlock’s name on it.

The cashier reached for the bill. He pulled it away. “Just a minute. Maybe I have some change.”

“I can make change for a five,” she said. He saw her eyes scan the line behind him.

“No, it’s just—” He looked at the bill, his eyes watering. “I need to keep this.”

“Do you have a card you can use?”

A hand holding a card reached over him. “Allow me,” a familiar baritone said.

The voice was not familiar because he had heard it often, but because it had never left his memory. He closed his eyes. He opened his eyes. He turned.

Sherlock Holmes was smiling at him. “John,” he said. A book was tucked under his arm. _Diamonds are Forever._

“William,” he whispered. “Sherlock.”

“Interesting book, this,” said Sherlock. “Even so, I almost didn’t make it past the flyleaf.”

New York / Sherlock

Snogging John in the line at Starbucks was a bit not good, Sherlock decided. But it was definitely romantic. A good decision, overall. Most of the people in line had clapped and cheered; only a few seemed put out by the delay. Well, it wasn’t as if any of them were going anywhere, what with the blizzard.

More importantly, even though he hadn’t planned it as a deductive tool, it showed him at once that his feelings were completely reciprocated by the man whose mouth his lips had taken captive. John had kissed back. Sherlock hadn’t even felt him hesitate. _He’d kissed back. Enthusiastically._

Besides, it wasn’t as if he could have stopped himself. When he saw John at the counter, trying to order coffee, he’d planned his witty remark about the book, but then the Universe had opened the door, Destiny had beckoned, and Serendipity had pulled him inside. He saw John’s face, heard him whisper his name, and all reason fled. He took him into his arms and kissed him the way he’d thought about kissing him for seven years.

Then Lestrade was grinning so broadly his face might have split, and he had to introduce him. The DI grabbed John in a bear hug, threatening not to let go of him until he promised to _be nice to this wanker_ because _he’s daft about you._

And Molly had hugged him— again. They’d found her at the gate for John’s flight, and she’d led them on a tour of every coffee shop in the vicinity until they’d spied John. Thankfully, she wasn’t John’s girlfriend, or even _the other woman_ , as Mary had styled her. She cried and hugged John, who was still smiling at Sherlock as if a wormhole had just opened up and deposited him at Starbucks #29, LaGuardia Airport, Queens, New York.

“Our flight to London was cancelled,” Lestrade explained. “So we decided to look for you.”

“But you’d be leaving from JFK,” John said. “Why did you come to LaGuardia? And how did you know I’d be here?”

“It wasn’t serendipity,” said Sherlock. “It was simply Mycroft, I’m afraid. He left a message at our hotel that you’d been in London, looking for me. He’d found your flight and learned that your connection had been delayed, gave us the gate number and clearance to get through security so we wouldn’t waste time arguing with TSA minions.”

“When the book turned up, we went to Chicago to find you,” Lestrade said. “When we heard you’d gone to London, well, it was odd to think of the two of you ending up on opposite sides of the Atlantic, trying to find one another.”

John shook his head, smiling. “Our timing was off, but now here we are.”

“You’ll stay, won’t you?” Sherlock asked him. “In New York, I mean. Now that we’re here, we might as well spend a few days… well, I’m sure we can think of something to do, if you’re amenable.”

John looked at Molly. “Are you…?”

“I’ve got to get back to Chicago,” she said. “They just announced that our flight has been rescheduled for tomorrow morning. But you stay.”

“Can I buy you dinner, Miss Hooper?” Lestrade asked. “My flight’s been rescheduled as well. And these two obviously need some alone time.”

“Thank you, Mr Lestrade. That would be nice.” She glanced at Sherlock and John, who were shyly smiling at each other. “And please call me Molly.”

“I’m Greg,” he replied.

Sherlock frowned at his friend. “Is that what you’re calling yourself now?”

Lestrade sighed. “I’ll see you back in London. Have fun.”

A Year Later / London

“Don’t you have a plane to catch?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock was striding around the crime scene, his coat whipping behind him. “Plenty of time.”

“Mycroft said he’d send a car for our bags, and then pick us up,” John said. 

Sally Donovan shook her head. “How’d he ever talk you into moving here?”

John smiled. “I like London.”

“What she really wants to know,” Lestrade said, “is how he talked you into marrying him.”

John looked over at his husband, who was studying something on the victim’s elbow. He smiled fondly. “Love at first sight,” he said. “Sometimes, you just know. No deductions necessary, just pure serendipity.”

“And now we’re returning to the scene of the crime, so to speak,” said Sherlock, approaching his husband and encircling him with his arms. “Tomorrow is the anniversary of the day we met in New York— over a banana split.”

“You don’t seem the type, Sherlock,” Sally said. “Serendipity isn’t logical. Not scientific.”

“Neither is love," he replied, taking John’s face in his hands and kissing him thoroughly. 


End file.
